You Better Watch Out
by Tiffany Park
Summary: An unlikely victim is recruited to play Santa for a charity Christmas fundraiser. Colonel Makepeace, Captain Carter, Doctor Fraiser
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: You Better Watch Out . . .

AUTHOR: Tiffany Park

STATUS: Complete

CATEGORY: Humor, Christmas

SPOILERS: None

SEASON: Season Two

PAIRINGS: None

RATING: PG

CONTENT WARNINGS: Minor language, nothing to get excited about

SUMMARY: An unlikely victim is recruited to play Santa for a charity Christmas fundraiser.

ARCHIVE: Please ask

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Just some light fluff, rapped out real quick for the ColRMakepeaceSG-3 at YahooGroups list. Inspired by Maffy's po'ed "Santa Makepeace" graphic.


	2. Chapter 2

**You Better Watch Out . . .**

**by**

**Tiffany Park**

"Absolutely not!" Makepeace was emphatic.

"Come on, sir. Please?" A pair of big, earnest blue eyes, framed by blonde hair, entreated him from across the mess hall table.

"Oh, no, you don't, Carter," he snapped. "That might work on O'Neill and Jackson—"

"What?" That time the blue eyes were so studiously innocent that it was laughable.

"You know what I'm talking about. Knock it off. You're supposed to be a professional."

Carter abandoned the tactic for another. "Sir, this is the general's favorite charity. He expects everyone to do their part."

"Not this part. Go pick on your own team."

Laughter gurgled from her lips. "You think Teal'c could pull it off?"

Unwillingly, his own mouth twitched. That was quite the mental image. "Maybe not Teal'c," he conceded, "but what about O'Neill or Jackson?"

"It's supposed to be one of the senior officers. That lets Daniel out," Carter told him. "And Colonel O'Neill's going to be out of town on a prior engagement."

I'll bet, Makepeace thought, disgruntled at the convenient timing of events on O'Neill's schedule. Whenever some undignified and embarrassing duty like this came up, the man always managed to have a "prior engagement."

"Besides," Carter went on, "he's not the right type."

"And I am? Christ, Carter, I've killed people." He added, for emphasis, "Lots of people. Lots and lots of people. Does that sound like the right type for this job?"

Carter made a dismissive gesture with her fork. "Sir, no one at the party will know about that. Once you've got the costume on, I'm sure you'll do great—"

He was the right type? Terrific. Makepeace took a big bite of his macaroni and cheese. He supposed it was the blue eyes that did the trick. And his round face—almost, but not quite, a baby face. Fortunately, his sharp nose saved him from that ignoble label, something for which Makepeace had always been profoundly grateful. Between his deceptively soft looks and his rather improbable name, he had taken a lot of ribbing in his younger days, and he was still just a little sensitive about it.

Carter yammered on. He ignored her, but she didn't seem to notice. She had approached him here in the crowded mess hall and joined him for lunch without so much as a by-your-leave. In full view of what seemed like every airman on the base, he couldn't just cut her off and make his escape. It wouldn't be seemly for a big, bad Marine—and a colonel—to appear to be running away from a dinky little Air Force captain.

"What part of 'no' don't you understand, Captain?" he growled, interrupting Carter's latest spiel. "I'm sure it must be against regulations to badger a superior officer." Carter looked shocked, so he softened his stance a little and asked, "Where'd you get this crazy idea, anyway? Why not someone like Ferretti?"

"Well, I was talking to Lieutenant Johnson, and he said—"

Johnson. Ah, that explained all. Makepeace's second-in-command had been suspiciously enthusiastic about this charity fundraiser of the general's. He'd even come up with the idea that Carter was now pushing, and the whole team had had a good laugh at the incongruity of the image it invoked. At the time Makepeace had thought it a fine joke, and hadn't bothered to decline the honor. More fool he.

"Oh, Colonel Makepeace, there you are—" Janet Fraiser entered the fray, setting her tray down on the table and seating herself beside him with her customary grace. "I've been looking for you. I was talking to Lieutenant Johnson earlier—"

Johnson, again. Figured. "Oh, you were, were you?"

"Yes, sir," she replied serenely. "I know you're a busy man, so it's very generous of you to volunteer like this. I'm certain the general will be pleased." As both Makepeace and Carter goggled at her _chutzpah_, she cut off a piece of Salisbury steak, eyed it dubiously, then popped it into her mouth.

Makepeace scowled as he watched her chew. He was going to make Johnson sorry he'd ever even conceived of this idiotic scheme of his, let alone infected Captain Carter, Doctor Fraiser, and who knew how many other SGC personnel with it. In fact, he was going to make his whole team sorry. They had all latched onto the notion the instant Johnson had mentioned it, and had no doubt spread it across half the base by now. Traitors, every last one of them.

Two pairs of eyes fixed on him, Carter's imploring, Fraiser's merely expectant. The trap was closing in around him, and they knew it. That statement about the general had disturbing implications.

Since this was such a big deal for Hammond, Makepeace thought rebelliously, let him do it. Now, there was a man who was the right type. He wouldn't even need a pillow stuffed down the front of the costume. Makepeace grinned, but kept his mouth shut; he was bright enough not to give voice to that particular sentiment.

"It makes our jobs so much easier, knowing that's settled," Fraiser continued smoothly, willfully misinterpreting his amusement as acquiescence. She gestured at herself and Carter, whose proverbial deer-in-headlights expression had changed to a kind of relieved delight. "We really can't thank you enough, you know."

Oh, for heaven's sake, this was just too much. They were acting like it was a done deal, when he'd never agreed to a single thing. "Look, you two—" he began.

"Colonel Makepeace," General Hammond's unmistakable voice boomed out. Forks clattered, and even the cool, calculating Doctor Fraiser jumped. Makepeace whipped his head around, to find the general looming over him.

"Sir?" He made to stand.

"No, no, don't get up," Hammond said, smiling jovially. "I just stopped by to thank you."

"Thank me, sir?" Makepeace echoed.

"I understand you've volunteered to play Santa Claus at the charity party." There was a hint of steel beneath the genial Texas drawl, and a glint in the general's eyes. "Good work, son. I know you'll do an excellent job." Having made his unsubtle point, Hammond walked away. Angelic smiles wreathed Carter's and Fraiser's faces as they watched him saunter out of the mess.

Makepeace groaned and banged his head on the table.

Fraiser patted him on the shoulder in a gesture of false sympathy. "Drop by the infirmary sometime tomorrow for a fitting, Colonel," she said. "Around fifteen-hundred ought to be okay. It'll be slow about then."

Their mission accomplished, she and Carter got up and carried their trays away, leaving Makepeace to ponder the whims of fate and superior officers.


	3. Chapter 3

The next afternoon, one resigned but very irritated Marine stood on a low step stool in the middle of the infirmary, dressed in garish red velvet that was trimmed with fluffy white artificial fur. The bulky padding strapped to his front filled out the huge Santa coat. The whole uncomfortable assembly was cinched in place with a glossy black, patent leather belt. A red and white floppy hat topped his head. All that was missing was the beard and whiskers. That, Makepeace knew with a touch of dread, was coming later.

Fraiser knelt on the floor before him with a bristling pincushion strapped to her wrist, fussing with the hem of his left pant leg. Both of the pant legs were too long, at least by her standards. Makepeace shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wishing she'd hurry up and get done with the hemming already. As far as he was concerned, the whole process had gone on for entirely too long, and there was no end in sight.

"Please stand still, sir, or this'll be uneven," Fraiser said with long-suffering patience.

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just stand still."

It was easy to see she was a mother. She had that fish-eye thing down to a science. "Can I at least take off this stupid hat?" he asked.

"No."

"Come on, Doc, my head itches." To emphasize that point, he reached up under the Santa hat to scratch the back of his scalp.

"Sir, if you don't stop fidgeting, I'll have to start over again. And that would make me very unhappy." Her tone bordered on menacing. She stabbed a pin through the heavy folds of fabric with vicious intent.

Makepeace, however, was in no mood to heed the warning signs. The fur, velvet, and padding were hot and uncomfortable. He felt sweaty and sticky under all the layers, which added to his annoyance and sense of ill-use. To say he was cranky and embarrassed would be an understatement, and he felt a strong urge to vent.

He glanced down at the woman kneeling in front of him and reconsidered the impulse.

Fraiser was both a doctor and divorced—she didn't take bad-tempered guff from anyone, and could make even the phrase "yes, sir" sound as though she was addressing an inferior when she felt like it. Makepeace decided he didn't want her ticked off at him. He had been on the receiving end of her ire before, but then he'd been a patient—not a dressmaker's dummy!

"How much longer, do you think?" he asked, then winced a little. That had sounded an awful lot like a whine. Definitely not good for his image.

"A lot longer, if you don't hold still," was the brusque reply.

"Can't we take a break?"

"Colonel—" Fraiser ground her teeth in exasperation. "I swear, sir, you're worse than my daughter. Where's that vaunted Marine Corps discipline and stamina I've heard so much about?"

"Cheap shot, Doc. This wasn't my idea, you know. You and Carter decided to drag me into this, remember?"

"Blame the general, Colonel," she returned peevishly. "Captain Carter and I aren't any happier with this situation than you are."

"Yeah, well, I don't see either of you getting rigged out in silly getups," he grumbled.

"No," Fraiser agreed, gritting out the word. "We just got stuck with organizing the whole event. All you have to do is sit in a chair, play with the children, and say 'ho ho ho.' My life should be so tough. Now accept your fate with good grace and stand still. Sir." She thrust another pin through the velvet.

"Ow!" Makepeace exclaimed, jerking his leg back. Those pins were sharp. "Watch it, will ya?"

"You wouldn't get jabbed if you'd just hold still."

Makepeace shut up, unwilling to risk further encounters with steel pins. It occurred to him that charity work like this was the sort of duty a general's spouse usually performed, but Hammond was a widower. Fraiser and Carter had no doubt been pressed into service the same way Makepeace had been: with just a few casual comments and suggestions from the general, made with the underlying assumption that participation was nonnegotiable.

Office politics sucked.

Just when he was deciding that things couldn't get any worse, a chorus of deep and discordant male voices sang out through the SGC's hallowed hallways: "You better watch out! You better not cry—"

Oh, lordy. Makepeace recognized the tone-deaf singers. SG-3, the original choirboys. Hah.

The brazen trio, their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders in misguided camaraderie, paused right in front of the infirmary door. Three heads poked in with wide-eyed innocence. Three hands waved in perfect unison.

Makepeace glowered at them, knowing that anything he said would only serve to weaken his position, if that was even possible at this point. So much for the last shreds of his dignity.

Unfortunately, forbidding looks didn't stop the atrocious singing. SG-3 bellowed out, at the top of their collective lungs, "You better not pout, I'm telling you why: Santa Claus is coming to town—" Some airmen and a few SFs were hanging around, applauding and laughing. The Marines took a bow and continued with their unwelcome, oafish caroling.

The holidays must be making them giddy enough to forget or ignore their normally excellent senses of self-preservation. They'd pay for this, Makepeace vowed. His present discomfiture was all their fault, and they were going to pay big.

Now, what torture could he devise? Something that fell under the category of training—they were supposed to be elite forces, after all. Let 'em prove it and live up to the rep. He felt a malevolent satisfaction as his inner drill sergeant came to the fore. Calisthenics on Abydos, perhaps? Forced marches on an arctic world? There had to be some nasty, slimy, slug-filled, bug-infested swamp planet somewhere—the perfect place to bivouac, Makepeace was certain. Oh, so many options, so little time.

Oblivious to their dire future, the three Marines continued singing, "He's making a list, checking it twice. Gonna find out who's naughty or nice. Santa Claus is coming to town—" The words drifted away as SG-3 strolled down the corridor.

Makepeace unclenched his jaw and spent another moment indulging in his drill sergeant fantasy, adding a few more choice scenarios to those he'd already concocted. "Santa" was making a list, all right. SG-3 was so dead. He'd show them naughty or nice!

Then a new idea came to him. A malicious, spiteful, deliciously wicked idea that put his previous fantasies to shame. A slow grin spread across his face.

Fraiser stared up at him, worried. "Colonel?"

Makepeace hopped down from his stool. Forestalling her knee-jerk squawk at his movement, he took Fraiser's hands in his and helped her to her feet. "Doc, I swear to God that I'll stop complaining and be a good Santa for you, if you do one tiny, little thing for me."

She regarded him with deep suspicion. "What's that?"

He whispered in her ear, then pulled back. "Well?"

Fraiser grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes. Clearly, the woman had at least as much black-hearted evil lurking in her soul as he did. "Colonel, I would be delighted to arrange that. I'll speak to the general just as soon as we finish up here. You can consider it done."

Humming a cheerful Christmas carol in anticipation of a truly vile revenge, Makepeace climbed back onto his step stool.


	4. Chapter 4

The charity fundraising party was a complete success, a glittering extravaganza that was a credit to everyone involved. The elegant hotel ballroom was swathed with garlands of evergreens and holly, all entwined with red and gold ribbons and a multitude of tiny, twinkling lights. An enormous Colorado Blue Fir stood in regal splendor near the center wall. Ornaments of every color imaginable decorated its dense foliage. Tinsel shimmered on its every branch, and at its top a golden star glowed.

To one side of the ballroom, long banquet tables had been set up, covered with white linen tablecloths, and filled to overflowing with an incredible variety of hot and cold holiday fare. Crowds of well-dressed people hovered around the tables and chattered among themselves, holding plates and helping themselves to the food. Children raced about, shrieking and playing games, while the soft strains of Christmas music filled the air.

Outfitted to perfection in his Santa finery, Colonel Makepeace sat upon an ornate gilt throne that was placed a few feet in front of the Christmas tree. A eight-year-old boy was settled on his knee and relating an astonishingly long list of Christmas desires. Makepeace made the requisite noncommittal grunts while listening in fascination. He really was out of touch. What the heck was an Xbox, anyway?

The boy finished his monologue and looked up expectantly.

"You be a good boy, Tommy, and I think you'll be pleasantly surprised come Christmas morn," Makepeace told him after a quick glance to the boy's parents. Since they had nodded and smiled, he had felt free to give the kid that much hope. Considering the expensive cuts of the parents' outfits, and the jewelry that bedecked the mother, Makepeace figured that little Tommy was probably going to get every single thing on that list of his. "Now here you go," he added as he handed the boy a candy cane. "Merry Christmas, Tommy. Ho ho ho."

"Thank you, Santa," Tommy said politely. He hopped down from Makepeace's lap and ran over to his proud parents, clutching his candy and jabbering happily.

There were no other kids waiting to visit Santa at the moment, so Makepeace stood up and stretched. He took the opportunity to glance around. More people were pouring into the room, dropping toys into the overflowing bins beside the doors. At twenty-five dollars a head, in addition to the toy, the charity's coffers should be filling nicely. General Hammond ought to be pleased.

Speak of the devil, Makepeace thought in amusement, as his eyes lit upon that stalwart soul. General Hammond was beaming, resplendent in his dress blues and puffed out with pride. He moved among the partygoers, playing the role of gracious host with surprising enthusiasm. He was clearly having the time of his life.

Further searching revealed Carter and Fraiser, both of whom were looking festive in bright cocktail dresses. Carter was tastefully arrayed in shades of blue and silver, while Fraiser had opted for a flattering cranberry. The two women were hustling to and fro, greeting newcomers, pointing out Santa to those with children in tow, keeping tabs on the caterers and their supplies of food and drink, and in general making sure that all ran smoothly. Pleasant expressions were plastered on their faces, and they performed their duties and chores with apparent good cheer.

Wondering what favors they intended to extract from the general in return for all their hard work, Makepeace again seated himself on his throne. He smoothed his silky white beard and pushed the gold wire spectacles higher on his nose, then considered his three elf assistants with malicious glee. He beckoned one forward with an imperious gesture. "Hey, Twinkle," he boomed out, "how about getting ol' Santa an eggnog?"

Twinkle the elf, a.k.a. Lieutenant Johnson, winced and gave him a foul look. "Leaded or unleaded, si—Santa," he asked.

"Unleaded, of course. Got children here to think about, you know. Can't have Santa breathing fumes on them."

"Heaven forbid," Johnson muttered as he moved off toward the punchbowls, jingling all the way.

The jingle bells on the elf costumes were an inspiration, Makepeace thought with a grin. None of the elves could so much as turn a head without making a noisy and humiliating racket of jingle-jangles. That Janet Fraiser was one evil and sadistic woman.

He surveyed his subdued teammates, feeling smug. Fraiser had held up her end of the bargain—more than held it up, in fact. The sight of all three members of SG-3 in gaudy red and green Christmas elf costumes did his tired old eyes good. Silly didn't even begin to describe how his team looked.

From the feathers in their pointy elf hats, to their snug vests and pouffy shorts, to the bells on their curly-toed shoes, the three Marines resembled nothing so much as sprites with severe hormone difficulties. Makepeace found the effect highly entertaining, and thought his men were properly cut down to size. He especially liked the red and white striped tights. That was a nice touch.

Naturally, the kids loved the elves, and many, many photos had been taken—some even by the children's parents.

Makepeace was counting on those shots. More than one was going to get blown up to life-size to decorate the locker room walls.

Johnson came trundling back on his candy cane legs, bearing a cup of eggnog and jingling with every step he took. "Here you go, Santa," he said, his normally robust voice strangely muted.

Must have been a tough trip to the punchbowl. "Thanks, Twinkle," Makepeace said, stressing the name as he accepted the proffered cup. Johnson winced again and returned to his place by the throne.

With a feeling of intense satisfaction, Makepeace leaned back against the cushions and sipped his eggnog. It was good to be Santa. Ho ho ho.

**~ end ~**

_December, 2001_


End file.
